


The Adventure of the Greek Exsanguinator

by gardnerhill



Series: The Vermilion Problem [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Community: spook_me, Other, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, Story: The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter, Vampire Sherlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: A Greek visitor has gone missing.





	The Adventure of the Greek Exsanguinator

**Author's Note:**

> An immediate sequel to the story [Meet the In-Laws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643594) (this story can be read on its own with no lack of comprehension).

_I would like to ask your assistance in tracking down a missing club member, a_ vrykólakas _who is visiting from Greece._

Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the eccentric club-owner and elder brother of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, made this request of us in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club. That he asked this not ten minutes after he and every fiendish member of his club had concluded an entire night of trying either to devour me or drive me mad is beside the point. Knowing what I do about the nature of both Holmes brothers and those with whom they associated, I considered that assault a terrifying initiation ritual that made me honorably, if grudgingly, welcomed into their ghastly inner circle, though Mycroft would hate me forever for having lured his inhuman sibling into regaining a semblance of a human heart.

Fortunately my association with Sherlock Holmes – whom I had retained as a friend even after I had discovered his blood-drinking nature quite by accident one night – had accustomed me to such horrific things, and as I had just proved my courage and steadfastness to Mycroft's satisfaction he had vowed my protection from Club members henceforth, providing I followed their rules, for the duration of my natural life. With that eldritch business out of the way, the elder brother then sought assistance from his sibling on another matter as if we had merely come to the Club on a social call.

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands as our cab took us back to Baker Street, we having left the terrifyingly silent Club members in their chairs and settees to their daylight somnolence. He was pleased and relieved that I'd survived my all-night ordeal, and to be tasked with a challenging case only improved his mood. "It is not often that my brother has need of my assistance, Watson."

Despite my exhausted state and ravening hunger after my sleepless night in the Club, I puzzled over the request the larger, fleshier sibling had made of my gaunt friend. "But if Mycroft is indeed your intellectual superior, Holmes, why would he require your help?"

Holmes shrugged. "If Mycroft had an iota of interest in using his intellect for anything more than selecting his next meal, he would not."

I nodded. Holmes had already related the story of how he and his brother had been caught out hunting by the wolflike creature that had turned them both into fiends – Mycroft becoming a devourer of human flesh and Sherlock Holmes contenting himself with the lifeblood in a man's veins – an existence they had begun by slaughtering their own parents and fleeing their estate in the days of the Norman Conquest. "Still, if this matter involves a missing member of his club, one would think he'd take a personal interest."

"Mycroft's only concern is that the secrets of our family and of his club be maintained. He cares little for the fate of this missing Mr. Kratides other than to confirm that he is either permanently silent or preoccupied with another matter. In any case, owing to my singular profession I am more able to tolerate going abroad in daylight hours and interacting with mortals for non-gustatory purposes. I plan to begin by learning as much about this particular _vrykólakas_ as possible." Holmes laid one long cold hand on my forearm and smiled at me. "But you, my dear Watson, have had quite enough to contend with these past hours, so the only items on your immediate itinerary ought to be a good meal and a long sleep."

I was not sorry to hear that last, for we had just arrived at our lodgings and by now only my hunger pangs kept me awake. It was early morning still, but Mrs. Hudson only headed to the kitchen to order our breakfasts prepared without a remonstrance, our landlady and domestic staff having become accustomed to Holmes and I going about in all sorts of odd hours. As I had not dined the night before, I had no trouble finishing both plates of eggs, rashers and toast sent up with a pot of coffee. Holmes was already busy perusing his exhaustive index books as I headed up to my room; he was clearly in the grip of the energy that drove him during a case to forsake his regular daytime somnolence in pursuit of answers. I, having endured bloodloss (however willingly), stress and sleepless horror in the past twelve hours, needed only touch my head to pillow for dreamless sleep to take me.

I awoke late in the afternoon, and after attending to my toilet I headed downstairs to the sitting room where tea was laid out. Holmes was still engrossed in his studies, sprawled on the sofa amid a pile of books and newspapers, so I did not greet him as I sat down to refresh myself.

"Watson, what do you know about _vrykólakas_?" came over my shoulder halfway through my repast.

I finished my bite of scone. Not long ago I would have given my friend a blank look. "Originally Slavic vampires who immigrated to Greece starting around AD 600. _Vrykólakas_ are sometimes feared as vampires, sometimes more as werewolves. Folklore have them as revived wicked people haunting the places where they lived and attacking the living there. Some may merely act as unthreatening poltergeists, like Alexander of Pyrgos who returned to his home only to mend his orphaned children's shoes and chop firewood for his widow. A _vrykólakas_ is defeated by cremation of the corpse it inhabits, or securing it in its coffin with silver or iron spikes at hands, feet, throat, and heart."

A long pause. "Excellent, Watson." I'd surprised him.

I waved a dismissive hand; I was not proud of how I had obtained that knowledge. "While Miss Adler held you for two months, I did a lot of research." I'd looked everywhere when the hunter Irene Adler had taken him captive (to the shameful point of searching every churchyard and crypt in London); when I was not actively looking for Holmes I read everything I could find on the subject of creatures like him, hoping in vain to find a clew in the literature. How that incident ended is another story for another time.

"Splendid. Then I need not catch you up." A letter appeared at my elbow, held between two long fingers nearly as white as the paper. "Mycroft sent further details along at my request. I rather thought you were in no state to remain longer at the Diogenes this morning whilst I asked these."

I took the letter. "You rather thought correctly." Smiling at the dry laugh I'd elicited from my flatmate, I perused the contents.

The _vrykólakas_ was named Paul Kratides. He had arrived from Greece that month to transact some financial business at Lloyds, and had not been seen since the night he'd arrived. I snorted. "I see what you mean about Mycroft not caring overmuch about this disappearance."

"It was assumed that Kratides had headed to the nearby riverfront to dine after his bank business. Some, as I had, disappear in that milieu to hunt their prey for several nights. Three weeks, however, is taking such a disappearance too far."

Hunt… I thought of the way Irene had ended her last letter to Holmes – warning both of us that she was not the only monster-destroyer in London.

"I think as you do, Watson."

I laughed. "Amongst your other unnatural gifts, _can_ you truly read my thoughts?"

"No need – not when your eyes turn to my desk drawer where I keep the hunter's note." (Holmes had faced many such trackers of the supernatural in his centuries of existence, but to him Irene Adler – the only one who'd ever gotten the best of Sherlock Holmes – was _the_ hunter.)

"Well, the simplest solution is usually the correct one, Holmes. Very likely Mr. Kratides fell afoul of a hunter."

"In which case we confirm the theory and let Mycroft know." Holmes retrieved the missive. "Shall we go to Lloyds and proceed from there to the river?"

By which my friend meant the vile docklands and wharves, where a few more corpses in the Thames would arouse no suspicion – including ours, if we did not proceed with caution. Sherlock Holmes was asking me to join him in one of the most dangerous areas in London, following a three-weeks cold trail, just as the sun was setting.

I arose from the table. "I would like nothing better." I meant it.

His smile was warmer than his flesh. "I know my Watson."

Within the hour we wended our way through the noisome chaos of evening activity along a Stepney shipyard to one of the countless watering-holes that hosted the sailors, dockhands, stevedores and less savoury workers. Holmes had disguised himself as Captain Basil, his wont when going incognito in this area; as I would be clearly identified as an imposter if I tried the same, I merely came along as if the sea-captain had been sent to fetch a doctor. Why Holmes had chosen this particular tavern was soon made clear when I realised that most of the loud drunken or angry voices in and around the establishment were speaking Greek. My friend went inside to glean information from the inhabitants, while I attended to a collapsed drunk in the adjoining alley as if that were the reason I'd been summoned. The besotted man reeked of creosote and gin but was in no danger from the usual inhabitants here, as he'd already been robbed.

More than one street-woman approached me, speaking Greek then English, clearly attracted by my clothing that proclaimed me a man of means; I rebuffed them politely and ignored their profanity as they moved on and vanished into the fog. But I kept my back to the alley wall and my eyes about me; the women might try to seize my doctor's bag, as more than one unfortunate down here was a morphine or cocaine addict.

One gaunt street-girl approached, smiling. Her garish red choker matched her lip-colouring, and her eyes were so heavily kohled she looked more like a defeated boxer than a sultry Jezebel. The murky night had a chill yet she did not shiver in her thin dress that shamelessly bared her white shoulders. Her voice was as reedy and thin as her body, and as Greek-accented as those of the other women. "Warm a girl up, soldier?"

I held up a hand; I did not want her close enough to pick my pocket. "Not tonight, I'm afraid, Miss."

"Sophy." She grinned. Her teeth were perfect and shining, an impossibility. "I'm Sophy. We could go someplace warm." Her eyes were the colour of steel.

I grinned back, and raised my hand higher to bare my wrist; the bandage was off and the scar across the vein was a pink line. "Yes, I expect a _vrykólakas_ would be homesick for Grecian climate."

Her face changed. Horrific and startling, to be sure, but after my night at the Diogenes – and especially after having seen Mr. Mycroft Holmes in his true appearance – I had seen far worse in the prior 24 hours.

My other hand was out and it held my revolver. "You thought that silver you smelled was in my purse, didn't you?" I kept my voice as low and courteous as hers. "Hullo, Captain."

The sea-captain who'd just appeared behind the rage-contorted Sophy held her in an iron grip by the back of the neck – and the creature froze, clearly feeling the lack of a pulse in those icy fingers, her face changing back to that of a heavily-painted street-woman.

"Doctor. We are both fortunate in our intelligence gathering," said Sherlock Holmes. "You must be Sophy."

Sophy might have still tried to attack me had I been alone. She knew better than to fight someone clearly her superior in the supernatural realm – while simultaneously dealing with a mortal who knew exactly how to dispatch her.

We did not require a room for privacy; by simply taking three steps into the alleyway we were all three entombed by the filthy fog.

"Sophy makes this tavern one of her particular haunts, according to the men inside." Holmes smiled. "She is hardly the only woman of Greek extraction who plies her trade here, but all the others have beating hearts and hot blood."

I looked at the steel-eyed and enraged Sophy. "Perhaps you can help us, Miss." Just as when I faced a rifle-bearing and trousers-clad Irene Adler, I could not resist treating a woman with my habitual courtesy even after she'd shewn me her true nature. "We are seeking a fellow named Paul Kratides, who shares your nature. He would have been here about a week ago."

"The barman recognized Kratides from my description, and says he was last seen walking away with a bar-fly who matches _your_ description," Holmes added from behind her. "We are tracing his steps. When did you last see Kratides?"

She grinned, still displaying inhumanly perfect teeth that were almost more frightening than when she'd bared her blood-incisors. "Two hours ago. He is helping us. We have our orders."

"We." Holmes' own steel eyes flickered. "You recruit for a river gang. That is why Kratides simply disappeared from Mycroft's purview."

The usual gangs here were merciless and brutal enough when they were mortal men and boys. The thought of a group of literally blood-thirsty killers terrorising the docks – possibly within range even now – made me cold.

"Gang? We are pupils." The girl laughed. "Sir has his eyes on richer blood than these clapped sailors."

"Sir." Holmes nodded. "The fiend who turned you to his own kind. Take us to Sir."

Her laugh drowned out the end of his sentence. "Sir is not here. His aides watch over us."

Holmes' face contorted – not in any monstrous visage but in a very human horror. An instant later Holmes' face smoothed again, and his voice was its usual low courteous tone to his captive. "Ah. Then take us to _his aides_."

How strange the terminology was here – and clearly meaning something more judging from my friend's momentary expression. Pupils, aides, 'Sir,' as if this was a bizarre school. Perhaps this organization was like the orphan gang run by Fagin in Mr. Dickens' story.

"Will you be able to devour us before we repay the favour? A turn-soul and a blood-bag?" Sophy looked straight at me, baring her blood-teeth and her eyes going white.

"We only wish to ask Mr. Kratides a few questions and then we will leave." Holmes' teeth did not change but his eyes paled. I felt as if I was in the ocean surrounded by sharks, who would tear each other to pieces as soon as eat me.

Sophy turned to look at Holmes, and that's when I thrust the silver pin into the back of her neck, to the head.

She screeched in pain and twisted, but with no strength behind it. Holmes did not lose his grip on her upper arms, but moved away from her just enough to avoid contact with the toxic metal.

"One pin," I said to the shaking Sophy. "Which I will remove after you take us to the aides." I smiled at her, showing my own teeth. "I have two more pins. They're better for close-quarters combat than bullets, and quieter too."

Hate raged in her steel-ball-bearing eyes, but it was the hate of a helpless captive. One strike with silver hobbled a blood-drinker (as Holmes well knew from having spent 2 months a prisoner with Irene Adler's silver bullet in his breast); two wounded and three destroyed.

The three of us walked out of the alley. She nodded in one direction and there we went.

The warehouse was not far; these buildings teemed all along the riverfront and housed all sorts of unsavoury work from illegal gambling rings and prostitution houses to human gang headquarters. Sherlock Holmes wrinkled his nose as we approached the windows. "Mortal and immortal, together."

"Captives," I whispered. Poor victims of this false streetwalker, ensnared and brought here to feed these creatures – blood-bags, as Sophy derisively called me.

"I very much hope so." Holmes' voice was grim and cold.

We approached the warehouse and peered into a window facing its own alley; the glass was grimy but light within illuminated the scene.

A short stout man in a once-clean suit sat in a chair as if bound to it, looking frightened and exhausted. Two others bent over him, talking, stroking his cheek in a falsely-comradely gesture. One was a tall handsome young fellow in good clothing and the other a small round-shouldered middle-aged man in tweed and spectacles, with an expression that showed his pleasure in their pursuit. I shuddered; the tall young-looking man was deathly pale and the stout wicked-looking man was ruddy-complexioned. That was what Holmes had meant; clearly he and I were not the only mortal and immortal who worked together.

"Hello!" Holmes said softly. "That is not Mr. Kratides in the chair, nor is he either of the other two." He went still and drew in air through his nose. "But he is here."

I recalled the stench like an opened grave when Holmes had been starved in Irene's cellar prison – a stink that had gone away when I'd fed him at last. So they were also keeping a blood-drinker captive and starving him – Kratides and possibly others.

The stout tweedy fellow gripped the bound man by the jaw and turned the captive's head to look at something we could not see. The terror on the man's face made my teeth bare and my hand tighten on my revolver. I understood.

"Extortion," Holmes whispered. "Murder. Worse than murder."

Sophy made a sound of disgust. "The mortals have turned _you_."

Giving his fellow fiend no notice, Holmes nodded to me and I kicked the door open. Both our revolvers were out as we dashed into the warehouse.

At once I saw what we could not from the window – a gaunt white-eyed black-haired man cuffed to the far wall and straining toward the mortal man in the chair. Three men lay curled against the wall at his feet, shaking and moaning. The grave-stench billowed from that corner.

The tall pale one flew to the wall to unchain their starved captive and was felled by two shots from Holmes' gun. My friend ran over to secure his target.

I kept my own revolver leveled at the bespectacled little man, still standing near the chair where the stout man was bound. I threw all my steel into my voice. "Don't move."

The little human fellow giggled, a laugh that sent a chill up my spine as Mycroft's hideous wolf-demon face had not. "God help you."

Clink.

Holmes and I looked over at the wall – where Sophy grinned at us and reached for the second cuff on the chained Kratides.

We fired at the same time.

Sophy fell, but Kratides was free. He flew to where three mortal men clustered together in his direct path, so maddened by blood-hunger that it overrode his silver-poisoning the way a mortally-shot man will keep moving.

The man in the chair screamed. So did the little bespectacled man.

I fired once more and Kratides fell. One silver strike to cripple, he'd already gotten that one before his captivity. Two silver strikes to completely incapacitate. We were safe now.

A movement at the corner of my eye –

I swung my gun hand around and struck away the cosh the bespectacled little man had aimed at my head, landing a solid fist on his nose as well. He staggered back and fell amid the curled men on the floor. He screamed in terror.

One uncurled and seized the little man, and I just saw the shine of blood-teeth as it tore into his jugular vein, eyes reptilian, clawed hand reaching up to rake the spectacles off his face. The little man's scream rose in pitch like a hog at the slaughterer's as his blood gushed everywhere and the feral creature continued to tear at his throat – joined immediately by the other two curled men who swarmed the victim like sharks around a wounded dolphin, greedily seeking the spilling blood.

An icy grip on the back of my jacket froze me just as I was about to dash in to try to pull the man away from the devouring ferals, and I was dragged backward at speed. Sherlock Holmes held his revolver in the identical grip in his other hand and his face was grim.

I turned away from the horrific sight to release the captive in the chair, who was shaking and crying at witnessing the ghastly end of his gaoler. "It's over, sir. This business is done."

"Incorrect, Watson. It's only beginning." Holmes surveyed the scene with the same grim look. "The first order of business is to dispatch the fledglings."

Fledglings – the three newly-made vampires, most likely by Kratides from the way they had fawned at his feet. This also explained the brutal feeding behavior, since they had not yet learned the efficient bloodletting technique of their elders. Unwary as they were and wholly occupied with their prey, tearing open other blood vessels on the little man and greedily snuffling at them to extract the last drams, they offered no resistance as we both reloaded and walked up to shoot them three times each. The tweed man was beyond our help.

Sophy, the tall pale captor, and Kratides remained on the ground, incapacitated with two silver strikes each. I left Holmes to deal with them and returned to the freed prisoner.

"They w-were going to m-make me one of th-them." The man remained seated, shaking; tears flowed from his eyes in shock. "They t-took me from my h-hotel. They said they n-needed an interpreter d-down h-here. N-no one will believe me."

I put a hand on his shoulder, letting him feel my human warmth. "You were kidnapped by a river gang that tried to recruit you by violent means. That is only the truth, if not the full truth. No, the police will not be able to do anything about this particular gang. But we two know who can, and we'll see to that."

The man looked up at me, his face still contorted by fear. "Who _are_ you?"

I held out my hand. "Dr. John Watson." I nodded to where Holmes bound the other wounded creatures. "My friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are not the only mortal man aware of this other world."

The man nodded, and offered his own hand, the wrist still raw from his bonds. "Mr. Nikolaos Melas."

***

We paid a drover for the use of his waggon to take Mr. Melas back to his hotel and me back to Baker Street before Holmes headed to the Diogenes Club with his cargo: a half-dozen inhuman figures shrouded in a blanket as if he ferried a load of logs, three of them utter corpses and three merely wounded. The wounded vampires offered no resistance nor outcry under threat of a third silver shot by Holmes to finish the job. I had absolutely no desire to witness the type of questioning that would be done of Sophy and the tall fellow, nor how they would tend the returning Kratides. Knowing that my friend would elucidate when he returned, I consigned myself to the bath, the table and bed.

Sherlock Holmes returned at midmorning the next day. He still looked grim under the brim of the hat he wore to shield his eyes from the sun, and he had a faint odour as if he'd come away from Bart's dissection room.

I laid down my pen and rose from my desk. "You smell hungry, old chap. Sit down and feed first. Then tell me everything." I went into his bedroom for the gauze and my scalpel, and returned to sit beside him on the sofa. I brought up a good vein on my wrist and cut it open, pressing the bleeding wound to his cold mouth even as his icy hands eagerly gripped my forearm. His neat little razor-teeth could slit open the vein with even less pain and effort, but I sensed he needed the reassurance that I willingly gave him what he needed. I did not speak, nor move save to open and close my fist a few times to encourage the flow that was lapped up by a cold tongue; my other arm stayed around his shoulders as he fed from me. Only when he was warm everywhere he touched me did he relent; he pressed the gauze to my wrist so neatly after he'd released it that not a drop emerged from the wound. I kept my other arm in place whilst he bandaged me.

And there was the look of a peaceful human being in his face when he turned to me. The appetite that had once only been slaked by savagely draining a grown man to his death was now appeased with a gill of heart's-blood freely given by a man who loved him. His grim expression was gone; now only a dazed gratitude, love, relief, and satiety rested there. Smiling, I completed the embrace and kissed his warming neck as he gripped me back; we were lovers in all but name and surely equally as damned, and I had vowed that both of us would know the sweet as well as the bitter in our symbiosis.

Now I sat while Holmes stood and walked to the tantalus; I appraised him of the situation from my end. "Mr. Melas is spending the day in bed, according to the note he sent this morning. He has cancelled or postponed all his interpretation appointments for the next few days. I can't blame the poor man." I accepted the glass of water Holmes handed to me with a thanks and drank most of it in one draught.

Holmes produced a small bulging leather coin purse and tossed the heavy thing to me; I unsnapped it to find it full of bright chiming bullets and a single pin – the ammunition we'd used against the six. Holmes must have used forceps or gloves to remove the poisonous projectiles so that he could return them to me – a gesture I appreciated, as silver shot was no small expense for our work. I nodded my thanks and rose to deposit the purse in my desk drawer.

Holmes moved to his chair. "Watson, you may tell Mr. Melas that Sophy Kratides nor Harold Latimer will molest him again."

Harold Latimer was the tall well-dressed fellow last night, then. But Sophy was surnamed Kratides? "Paul was her _husband_?"

"Her brother. Her biological sibling, as with Mycroft and myself – very likely turned by the same creature who caught both unawares, in the same fashion." Holmes continued to fill me in as I gathered some papers at my desk and headed to my own chair to make myself comfortable. "Mr. Kratides told us that he had gone down to the dock to pay a call on his sister as much as to dine. He did not know the kind of company Sophy had begun to keep, mortal and immortal alike, nor this 'Sir' she mentioned, whom she never saw nor met. Her role in this gang was to lure men to their headquarters – mortal men to be fed to the immortals or turned into fledglings, and immortals to swell their ranks or be gang-pressed into producing more fledglings as Mr. Kratides was. Mr. Kratides is recuperating from his privation and wounds at the club before he plans to return to Greece. The three fledglings were sailors that disappeared from the tavern, strangers in London and an easy target. We also got what information we could from the two rogues, and the Diogenes Club dined upon them afterwards. That particular corner of the docks is free of that gang recruitment scheme for now."

Ice filled me at Holmes' matter-of-fact account of the fates of the other two. The Diogenes Club was merciless to those who were careless with their secrets.

I thought of the little ruddy man with a killer's glass-eyed stare whose giggle chilled my spine, who'd been torn asunder by the fledglings. "What of that other man?"

Holmes bared all his teeth in contempt. "Mr. Wilson Kemp. Not a thrall nor a fledgling, but a mortal man as cold and wicked as we, who found a kindred soul in this 'Sir.'"

I shook my head. Many turn to crime and murder out of a violent or brutal upbringing, but some men are simply evil to the core no matter how well or lovingly they are raised. And this man had worked for 'Sir' as one of his 'aides' along with Latimer and in turn had commanded 'pupils' like Sophy…

Holmes leaned forward in his chair facing me, and there was a gleam in his eyes – the excitement of having found a new mystery to whet his centuries-old brain. "Watson, Kemp is the reason I suspect that 'Sir' is a mortal man as well, and one equally as heartless though one beats in his chest. Further, the appellations given indicate a particular background."

"An academic one," said I.

"Precisely. Very likely this 'Sir' was or is a full professor at some university. I also suspect he is a former hunter, or was trained as one, for him to be so knowledgeable in the ways of our kind." Holmes actually rubbed his hands and grinned. "Well! I have not faced down a scholar hunter since their great science tome was the _Malleus Maleficarum_. This promises to become a very interesting pursuit in future."

Smiling at the eagerness in his voice, I held out the pages I'd taken from my desk. "In the meantime, Holmes, I have begun my account of both this Kratides case and my meeting with your brother. See what you think." I took up my pipe.

As I expected, I'd barely time for the first good draw of smoke before Holmes began laughing uproariously.

I laughed with him, holding my pipe in the hand that bore a bandaged wrist from feeding a vampire. "Yes, I did have to rewrite both events severely. I don't believe the _Strand_ permits the publishing of horror stories."

"Oh my dear friend!" Holmes was doubled over in pure merriment. "When Mycroft sees this, he will see that he has no need to fear your ability to guard our secrets, now or ever."

**Author's Note:**

> The two visual aids provided by the mod:   
>   
> 


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